Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

by Emily Brightwell

  “Who inherits her estate?” Mrs. Jeffries wanted to get to

  the heart of the matter. In her experience, which was quite

  extensive, she’d discovered that people killed for money,

  love, or vengeance. Sometimes all three.

  “Her husband,” Blimpey replied.

  “What about her children?” Betsy asked.

  “They didn’t have any. Caroline Muran was forty-two,

  but she only married about five years ago. He was a widower and he’d no children, either.”

  “So he’s the sole heir?” the housekeeper pressed.

  “There was a brother, but he was killed while traveling

  in America. He was a bit of ne’er-do-well, if you know

  what I mean.”

  “I don’t understand how Mrs. Muran ended up shot and

  Mr. Muran only got a cosh on the head,” Wiggins said.

  “That don’t seem right.”

  “That’s one of the things I’m hoping you lot will find

  out.” Blimpey put his mug down on the table. “I take it this

  means you’ll help.”

  “We’ll do the best we can,” Mrs. Jeffries replied softly.

  “But we’re not making any promises.”

  “Fair enough.” He grinned broadly. “I’ll make it worth

  your while.”

  “There’s no need for that,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “As I said,

  your poor friend may face the gallows despite our best efforts. We’ve not long. The execution is scheduled for April Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

  23

  ninth and it’s already March twentieth. We’ll have to work

  fast.”

  “I’ve every faith in ya.” Blimpey took out his watch.

  “Now, unless you’ve something else to ask me, I’d best be

  off.”

  Mrs. Jeffries looked around the table. “Does anyone have

  any questions?”

  “I’m sure I’ll have some later,” Wiggins said. “But right

  now, I can’t think of anything.”

  No one else could, either, so Blimpey took his leave.

  Smythe walked him to the back door. “This was a bit of a

  surprise,” he whispered.

  “Sorry.” Blimpey grinned apologetically. “But I was in a

  bit of a hurry, mate. I didn’t mean to spring this on ya.” He

  kept his voice low.

  Smythe reached for the doorknob. “No ’arm done. I

  don’t think the others suspect we’re more than just casual

  acquaintances.”

  “More importantly, your lady doesn’t know the truth.

  She’s a right beauty, Smythe. How’d a ’ard old dog like

  you got a lovely like that is beyond me.”

  As Smythe frequently wondered the same thing, he

  shrugged. “Just lucky I guess.” He opened the door and the

  two men stood in the hallway staring out at the downpour.

  “You’re going to get soaked to the skin.”

  “Not to worry.” Blimpey wound his scarf high around

  his throat. “Nell will have something nice and hot waiting

  for me when I get home. You come along and see me soon.

  I’ve a few bits and pieces I didn’t share with the others.”

  “Why’d you do that?”

  “You’re one of my best customers. I had to save a few

  things for you. I can’t have your mates thinkin’ poorly of

  your detective skills. See ya tomorrow then.” He stepped out

  into the rain and hurried off in the direction of the garden

  gate.

  Smythe didn’t know whether to be insulted or pleased.

  24

  Emily Brightwell

  They were waiting for him when he got back to the

  kitchen. “ ’E’s gone,” he said as he slipped into his spot next

  to Betsy. “What do we do now?”

  “I’m not sure,” Mrs. Jeffries mused. “This is so different from our usual case.”

  “Do you really think so,” Mrs. Goodge said in a tone

  that was more of a comment than a question.

  “Don’t you?” the housekeeper replied.

  “Not really. We know just about as much as we usually

  do when we start our investigatin’.” The cook got to her

  feet and went to the pine sideboard. Opening the top drawer,

  she took out her writing paper and pencil. “We know when

  the crime took place; we know who was killed and where

  they lived. That’s not much more than we generally know.”

  She put the paper down on the table and sat back down.

  “Now, I’ve a lot to do, so let’s get this part of the meeting

  done with quickly.”

  “Luty and Hatchet are going to be fit to be tied.” Betsy

  giggled. “They hate missing out.”

  Luty Belle Crookshank and her butler Hatchet were

  friends of the household. Luty Belle, an elderly, eccentric,

  and rich American, had been a witness in one of their first

  cases. Being clever and observant, she’d figured out what

  they were up to as they asked questions and tried to help

  their inspector solve a particularly ugly murder of a Knights-

  bridge physician. After that case was over, she’d come along

  with a problem and asked for their help. She and her butler

  had helped solve that murder, and ever since they’d insisted

  on being included in all the inspector’s cases.

  “And Luty missed most of our last case,” the housekeeper

  commented. “Oh well, it can’t be helped. They’re not due

  back for three weeks.”

  “They’ll never leave again.” Smythe grinned. “No matter how much her lawyers or her bankers press her.”

  Luty had gone back to her home country to attend several company board meetings and meet with her American lawyers and bankers.

  Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

  25

  “She’ll never forgive her lawyers for making her go now

  that she’s going to miss a murder.” Betsy laughed. “But at

  least Hatchet’s missing it, too. Not like last time when he

  got to help and she didn’t.”

  “She did a few bits,” Wiggins protested. “She might

  ’ave been ill, but she weren’t at death’s door. She gave us a

  bit of ’elp.”

  Mrs. Goodge looked up from the list she’d been writing

  and gave them a good frown. “Come along now, we’ve got

  to get cracking. Go on, Mrs. Jeffries, get us started.”

  “You’re right, of course. We really ought to get on with

  it.” She thought for a moment, wondering how one stopped

  an execution, providing of course one had evidence someone was innocent. But she decided to cross that bridge when she came to it. The first thing they ought to do was

  solve the actual crime. “Let’s see, uh, Mrs. Goodge, you’ll

  do your usual activity. Do you have many people coming

  along in the next few days?”

  The cook did all her investigating right here in the cozy

  warmth of the kitchen. Delivery boys, tinkers, rag and

  bones sellers, mush fakers, and street vendors were all part

  of the small army of people who trooped through the back

  door on a regular basis. Additionally, she had a network of

  former colleagues in the form of cooks, maids, tweenies,

  and gardners that she wasn’t above using for information.

  “No. The laundry boy came this morning and the street

  vendors stay inside when it rains like this. But not to worry,

  I�
��ve plenty of my old colleagues I can invite around. We’ve

  plenty of supplies in the larders, so I can start baking right

  away. Nothing gets people talking like some nice buns or a

  good slice of seed cake.”

  “Excellent.” The housekeeper turned her attention to

  Betsy.

  “I’ll start with the shopkeepers in the Muran neighborhood,” the maid said quickly. Betsy had a positive genius for getting trades people to talk. It was amazing how much

  information about a victim or a suspect one could find out

  26

  Emily Brightwell

  from a friendly chat with a grocer or a fishmonger. She

  glanced anxiously toward the window over the sink on the

  far wall. “Maybe I can start today if the rain lets up a bit.”

  “I’ll nip over to the Muran neighborhood as well,” Wiggins offered. “If Mrs. Muran owned a factory, she must ’ave

  ’ad lots of servants. One of them is bound to be out an’

  about.”

  “Not in this weather,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Look, none of

  us can do much until the rain stops. So I’ve a suggestion:

  let’s get everything done around here that we possibly can

  so that when we do get a break in the weather, we can get

  out without delay.”

  The rain finally stopped, but by that time Inspector Witherspoon had come home. “Good evening Mrs. Jeffries,” he said as he put his umbrella in the blue-and-white-flowered

  porcelain urn that served as an umbrella stand.

  “Good evening, sir,” she replied. “Did you have a good

  day?” She reached for his wet bowler hat.

  “It was fine.” He shrugged out of his overcoat and hung

  it on the coat tree. “Luckily, there isn’t much going on. I

  spent the morning at the Yard and the afternoon doing paper work at Aldgate police station.”

  “Would you care for a sherry before dinner, sir?” she

  asked. She wanted to find out if he knew any details about

  the Muran murder.

  “That would be lovely,” he agreed. “But only if you’ll

  join me.”

  The inspector had been raised in very modest circumstances. He’d inherited a fortune and his huge house from his aunt Euphemia Witherspoon, so consequently he tended to

  treat his servants as human beings. Smythe and Wiggins had

  both worked for the late Euphemia Witherspoon, and the inspector, even though he had very little need for a coachman or a footman, had kept them both. He’d no idea how to

  run a big house, so he’d hired Mrs. Jeffries, the widow of a

  Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

  27

  Yorkshire policeman, to be his housekeeper and Mrs.

  Goodge to be a cook. Betsy had arrived in the household by

  collapsing with a fever on their doorstep. When she’d recovered, she’d stayed on as a housemaid.

  They went down the hall to the drawing room and Mrs.

  Jeffries poured both of them a glass of Harvey’s Bristol

  Cream sherry. “I understand that they found Tommy Odell

  guilty of that woman’s murder,” she began. The inspector

  wouldn’t think it in the least odd that she wanted to discuss

  criminal matters. It was one of their main topics of conversation.

  “Yes.” Witherspoon nodded his thanks as he took his

  drink. “Odd you should mention the fellow. Inspector

  Nivens spoke to me about the case today as well.”

  “It was Inspector Nivens’ case?” She pretended surprise, as the papers hadn’t mentioned Nivens’ name in the article she’d read and she’d bet her quarterly housekeeping

  money that Nivens was furious over the ommision.

  “It was indeed.” The inspector took a quick sip from his

  glass. “He got the case because the victim’s pocket watch

  turned up in a pawnshop after the murder. Apparently

  Odell was easy to trace from that point.”

  “According to the papers, it was Mrs. Muran that was

  killed,” she said slowly. She tried to think about what details the paper had mentioned. She didn’t want to give away a detail they might have heard from Blimpey.

  “For once, the papers got it correct.” He frowned and

  shook his head. “The poor woman was shot in the head at

  very close range. Frankly, Mrs. Jeffries, I’m glad I didn’t get

  that one.”

  “It sounds awful.”

  “It was. The husband was hurt as well, but luckily he

  wasn’t killed.”

  “He was only wounded?” she said, deliberately getting

  the facts wrongs. “I don’t recall what the papers said about

  him.”

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  Emily Brightwell

  “He was hit on the head and knocked unconscious.”

  “Gracious, that’s unusual, isn’t it?” Mrs. Jeffries exclaimed. “One would think it would have been the other way around.”

  “That’s what Constable Barnes said today when we saw

  Inspector Nivens,” Witherspoon said, his expression mildly

  surprised. “I must say, Nivens didn’t like the constable’s

  comments, but apparently several of the rank-and-file lads

  thought there was something . . .” he paused, searching for

  the right words, “not quite right about the case.”

  “What do you think, sir?” She watched him carefully,

  hoping to see a glimmer of interest about the case in his expression. If they found themselves with enough evidence to cast doubt on Odell’s guilt, but not enough to absolutely

  prove him innocent, they’d need the inspector’s help. It

  wouldn’t hurt to try and coax him on board, so to speak, at

  this point.

  “I think that the facts of the case were presented before

  a judge and jury. Tommy Odell was found guilty. I’ve great

  faith in our system of justice, Mrs. Jeffries.” He drained the

  last of his sherry, rose to his feet, and took a deep breath.

  “I’m sure that whatever questions were raised about the

  case were adequately explained at Odell’s trial. Something

  smells wonderful. I’m famished.”

  Betsy stood on the corner of Drayton Gardens and the Fulham Road. She surveyed the area carefully. On the far side of the street were a greengrocer, a butcher, a chemist, a

  draper, and a dressmaker. On the other was a large grocery

  shop, an estate agent, an ironmonger, and the local branch

  of the London and Southwest Bank. Betsy crossed the road

  and started down the pavement. She stared into the windows as she passed the shops, looking for the one that had the least number of customers. She was also looking for

  one that had young male clerks behind the counters. She’d

  had great success in the past in getting information out of

  young men. They loved to talk, especially if they thought

  Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

  29

  they could impress her with their knowledge. At the greengrocers, she saw a sour-faced old man pouring potatoes from a burlap sack into a bin so she walked on past. She

  paused at the butcher shop. The place was full—there was

  a woman at the counter and three more lined up behind her

  waiting their turn to be served. She went on to the chemist’s

  shop and peeked in the window, then she pulled open the

  door and stepped inside.

  “May I help you, miss?” The young man behind the

  counter smiled eagerly.

  Betsy gave him her most dazzling smile in return. Momentarily, she had a t
winge of guilt, but she ruthlessly fought it back. She wasn’t being untrue to Smythe; she was

  trying to make sure an innocent man didn’t hang. “Have

  you any lavender water?” she asked.

  He turned to one of the shelves behind him and took

  down a small glass container. “We’ve this kind. Will it do

  you?”

  “That’ll be fine,” she replied.

  “Anything else, miss?” he asked.

  Betsy pretended to think, hoping that he’d fill the silence by speaking. She’d noticed that if she said nothing, people often would start to talk. It was as though the silence made them uncomfortable. She also had noticed that people tended to say more if they were the ones starting the

  conversation.

  “We’ve some nice hand cream that’s just come in from

  France,” he said. “Some of our local ladies seem to like it

  very much.”

  “Why, how very clever of you,” she cried. “You must be

  able to read minds. That’s exactly what I need.”

  He looked enormously pleased with himself. “It’s just

  over here,” he gestured toward a display case on the end of

  the counter. “It’s very popular. Excellent quality for the

  price.”

  “Do the posh ladies like it?” Betsy turned and looked

  where he pointed.

  30

  Emily Brightwell

  “Oh, yes. Mrs. Morecombe—her husband’s an MP—

  uses it, as does Lady Eldon and Mrs. Muran—”

  “Mrs. Muran?” Betsy interrupted. “Wasn’t she the lady

  that got murdered?” She couldn’t believe her luck. “Oh dear,

  I don’t mean to be indelicate, but I do recall reading about a

  lady by that name who was killed. Was it the same one?”

  “It was during a robbery,” he replied. “It was a terrible

  tragedy. Mrs. Muran was the nicest person. She shopped

  here regularly and was always as pleasant as can be. She

  always paid her bill in full each month. She could have sent

  one of the maids to pick up her medicines, but she always

  came herself.”

  “She sounds a very nice person indeed,” Betsy said

  softly. “And I’m sure she’ll be missed.”

  “The whole neighborhood misses her,” he said. “She was

  very active in the local area, always supported the various

  charity drives and fund-raising activities. Of course, it’s most

  likely her employees at the factory that will miss her the

  most.”

  “She was a businesswoman?” Betsy picked up the white